


Trouble Can Be Tiny

by clockwiseandwiddershins (Stratagem)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-28 05:12:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16717153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stratagem/pseuds/clockwiseandwiddershins
Summary: The past is forever catching up to Aramis and always in the most unexpected of ways.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Hello! The Musketeers (BBC) doesn’t belong to me at all, but I do like playing in the world! 
> 
> A/N: I originally posted this before I went on an AO3 break and took everything down and deleted the original clockwiseandwiddershins account (I didn’t know about pseuds then). I decided to bring it back!
> 
> Set right after the events of S1.

"I'm going to slice you up into bits and feed those bits to the birds, you rotten thief!"

d’Artagnan sighed. Couldn't he have one day that _wasn't_ rift with excitement? There was such a thing as a peaceful morning, he was certain they still existed, but they were practically foreign since he had come to Paris so long ago. Even when he did go out to the countryside on Musketeer business, dull moments were few and far between.

He was standing just inside the bakery, leaning against the doorframe, so it was easy to see a tiny wisp of a thief rush by with a satchel clutched in hand and a scarf around his nose and mouth. Right on his heels was an apprentice from a nearby shop, one hand outstretched as if to catch the frayed end of the boy's scarf. There was a fiery, murderous look in the apprentice's eyes, born from embarrassment and rage. It was likely that he would be the one blamed for letting the theft happen in the first place.

While normally d’Artagnan would have allowed something of this nature to sort itself out, he felt that he needed to make sure the apprentice didn't try to kill the little thief. Or beat him too harshly. Certainly stealing was wrong, but the boy didn't need to die for it and he was small enough that a rough thrashing might do him in.

Nodding to the baker, he went back outside in the winter chill, unfortunately bread-less, and mounted his horse, following after the two boys as they weaved through crowds on their dash through the street. It was easy enough to keep up with them, even as he had to guide his horse through the crowd. Most of them gave way at the sight of the fleur-de-lis. Beside, although the little one was spry and speedy, he didn't seem to know exactly where he was going so the path was rather straightforward instead of swirling through Paris’ side streets. It was almost as if he was afraid of getting lost.

Eventually the apprentice was reduced to a huffing, puffing standstill while the thief darted ahead, glancing back only for a moment before racing on. d’Artagnan recognized the apprentice as the one who worked at the apothecary closest to the Garrison, which further piqued his interest in the thief.

Most people didn't steal from an apothecary as it was often difficult to find exactly what you needed when the bottles and packets were all different sizes and oddly labeled. You needed to be able to read at least, and if you didn’t know, you would have to be very familiar with the wares. The boy had probably just snatched things at random, but he still wondered what the child intended to do with his potentially dangerous spoils. If used incorrectly, you could easily poison someone according to Aramis.

Seeing how he was already in this deep, he decided to keep tailing the thief. The boy was starting to slow down, probably tired out from that full on sprint. Not wanting to be too obvious, d’Artagnan slowed as well, bringing his horse to a walk.

The boy wasn't heading to the Court of Miracles, which was where d’Artagnan had assumed he would go. They actually weren't very far from the Garrison at all now, which would be the last place that most thieves would want to be found around. Perhaps he truly was lost.

There weren't many people about, and d’Artagnan was sure that the thief would notice him soon, but the boy kept walking, head down, single-minded. Hmm. Not very professional about the whole thing, was he? Probably new to stealing, maybe newly orphaned or a runaway.

The boy did look around before going down an alley, and d’Artagnan pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted, pretending to have dropped something. When he looked up, the thief was gone.

d’Artagnan considered his options as he tied his horse to a post and walked toward the alley. One, he could walk away and pretend this never happened and just let the child go. Two, he could confront the boy, take whatever he had stolen, and give him a warning about never doing it again before leaving. Three, he could do the lecture thing and then escort the boy to a church to see if they could locate his parents or find a family or a business to take him in. He was very small, so he couldn't be very old. It would be a mercy to take him to a church before the streets of Paris chewed him up and spat him out.

As he rounded the corner into the mouth of the alley, he was surprised to see the thief kneeling next to a bundle of cloths that moved, falling back to reveal another boy's face that was extremely pale except for bright red cheeks that spoke of fever.

Shaggy black hair fell in the child's eyes as he looked up at the thief who was offering a tiny bottle. Ah, so the thief wasn’t planning to sell his bounty. It had been for this friend. Now d’Artagnan was definitely going to have to go with option three since the sick boy needed a healer’s touch. Perhaps he would save the reprimands for after he delivered the pair to a church.

One problem with that: he would have to catch them first. He had not been sneaky enough and the moment they caught sight of him, the thief dragged the other boy to his feet.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, hoping that they would stay where they were if he didn’t appear menacing.

Of course they took off, fleeing toward the other end of the alley, the sick boy stumbling along as the thief pulled him by the arm. Cursing, D’Artagnan dashed after them.

“Stop!”

Neither of them were listening, but the one who was sick was falling behind, unable to keep up even though the thief was frantically tugging him along. d’Artagnan was quicker, and he was gaining on them easily, catching up just in time for the sick boy to collapse.

"No, levántate, levántate! Prisa!" the thief demanded in a high pitch voice, pulling desperately at his friend's arm. The fallen child could not or would not move. d’Artagnan look closer at the thief, and he saw a pair of huge, terrified dark brown eyes above the dirty scarf before the boy darted away from him, moving out of reach.

Bending down, d’Artagnan checked on the second boy while the other lingered nearby. He was young, looking to be about seven or eight years old. His skin was wretchedly hot to the touch, and it seemed like he was having trouble breathing. The freezing cold morning probably wasn't doing him any good.

"Your friend needs to get warm," d’Artagnan said, looking over at the tiny thief, not knowing if he understood a word, "I can take him somewhere safe."

"Leave him alone," the boy said, his words carrying a light Spanish accent, "Go away, I'm taking care of him."

Well, at least he could speak French. "Not very well by the look of him. He's really sick. I have a friend who's good with this sort of thing. We'll find you somewhere—"

"Aramis?" the sick boy asked, his hand drifting over the fleur-de-lis on d’Artagnan's shoulder guard. His friend's name coming from a strange child startled him, and he stared for a moment. This morning was turning out to be quite odd.

"What about Aramis? Do you know him?"

"Necesito hablar…" The boy started coughing, deep wet hacks that made it sound like he was trying to cough his lungs right out. He needed medicine and someone who spoke Spanish, and the one name he said could help on both those fronts. Picking him up, d’Artagnan started to turn toward the thief, but the slip of boy was nowhere in sight.

Great. He had a missing thief and a boy, who somehow knew Aramis, who was probably so sick he was going to die. d’Artagnan walked back to his horse and settled the boy in the saddle before climbing on behind him, one arm looped tight around him. Slowly, he nudged his horse forward into a slow walk, careful of the boy.

When he looked back, he spotted the thief at the edge of the alley, staring after him. He disappeared a moment later, but d’Artagnan had a feeling that he had not gone far.

Maybe he hadn't lost him after all.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Aramis glanced at the entrance to the garrison again, wondering what was taking d’Artagnan so long. The younger man had gone off to get a fresh loaf of bread for breakfast quite a while ago, and he had actually taken his horse, which meant he should have returned quite some time ago. Maybe he had run into Constance along the way and gotten distracted.

Across the table, Athos was glaring at the cup of water in front of him as if a simple look could turn it into something stronger, say, wine. Morning was not exactly Athos’ favorite time of day, and it was only made worse by a hangover. Porthos looked half-asleep himself, eyes half-closed as he chewed on a chunk of cheese, but then again spending most of the night in a tavern playing cards could do that to a man.

“Gentlemen, you’re going to have to look a little livelier for the hunt this afternoon,” Aramis said, looking at Porthos but really addressing both of them. “The King won’t appreciate being accompanied by Musketeers that look half-dead.”

Judging by the way Athos shifted his glower from the cup to Aramis, he understood.

Porthos grunted an answer around the cheese in his mouth and sat up straighter before slumping down again.

The King had ordered yet another hunt, which mean they would spend the chilly afternoon trotting around the forest, trying not to get frostbite. One would think the King would want to spend more time with his pregnant wife, but he seemed to want to get out of the palace as much as possible while Anne had to spend the long days cooped up inside alone. It hardly seemed fair, but no one asked Aramis his feelings on the matter.

Horseshoes clattering on the cobblestones broke his train of thought, and he looked up as d’Artagnan’s horse came trotting into the garrison with someone else riding in front of him.

“That doesn’t look like bread,” Aramis said with a smile as he stood up from the table, watching at d’Artagnan plucked the child down from the saddle. Instead of setting him on the ground, d’Artagnan held him close to his chest.                                                     

“Did you bring home a stray of your own, d’Artagnan?” Athos asked, looking over at the Gascon as he got up from the table as well.

Porthos snorted. “You’re just a pup, who said you could bring back one of your own?”

“He needs help, he’s pretty sick,” d’Artagnan replied, tossing both of them a half-hearted glare before turning to Aramis again.  “And he knows you.”

Aramis met him halfway, looking from the young Musketeer to the boy in his arms. “What do you mean, he knows me?”

“I found him in an alley,” D’Artagnan said, gripping a better grip on the boy, “He’s really sick, but he said your name and then a lot of Spanish. Do you recognize him?”

Frowning, Aramis pulled back the cloak that was covering the lad’s face. Dark hair, closed eyes, cheeks red with fever. He was mumbling under his breath, but nothing was distinct, the words were running together. There was something vaguely familiar in his looks, but nothing that stood out.

“Not really…” Aramis pulled his glove off and gently touched the boy’s forehead and neck. Heat rose against his hand, and his frown deepened. It felt like that fever was eating the child up from the inside. “But he needs medicine and care, or he won’t make it.”

Both Aramis and d’Artagnan looked to Athos, asking for a confirmation that they knew he would give. For all his bluster and grouching, Athos had a good heart and a gruff but kind streak when it came to children.

“You should take him inside,” Athos said after a moment, giving a nod and walking toward the stairs to their captain’s office. “I’ll tell Treville what’s going on. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

“Tell him we’re working on our relationships with the citizens of Paris,” Aramis said, taking the boy from d’Artagnan. He was a small child, but he seemed to weigh more than a regular starved Parisian waif would under the circumstances.

d’Artagnan was leading the way to the Musketeers’ quarters, but he stopped, turning back around and forcing Aramis to go around him. “Wait, there’s another one.”

“Where?” Porthos asked, eyebrows knitting together. “You’ve just got the one, less you hid him in a saddle bag.”

“Well, I don’t really know where he is now but he was following me,” D’Artagnan said, “He’s actually how I found this one. I saw him steal something from an apothecary then followed him.” He nodded toward the entrance to the Garrison. “He was behind me most of the way here. I don’t think he’s sick, but I bet he’s hungry.”

“They probably work as a team,” Porthos said, “Easier for them to pick pockets that way.”

“Maybe the other one can tell us how this one knows you,” d’Artagnan said, looking at Aramis. “Or they could both know you.”

Aramis nodded. “It might be good to talk to him.”

Porthos got up from the table. “I’ll see if I can find him. What’s he look like?”

“Um, he’s wearing a grey scarf around his face and a floppy hat. He’s got a big coat on, and he’s got dark eyes. Brown, I think?”

“So you’re looking for every scamp in the city, Porthos,” Aramis said with a wry smile, “Good luck.”

Porthos smirked, but his eyes were serious. He knew the kind of life that children like this came from; he had lived it himself, and Aramis supposed that he would never forget the way winters in Paris could feel when you were small, alone, and desperate for the smallest scrap of bread. More than once, he had seen Porthos buying bread from bakeries and passing it along to street children.

“I’ll find him,” the big Musketeer said, “You just look after that one.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan said, and he and Aramis made their way inside.

Aramis headed straight toward his own room, which was beside Porthos’ and across from Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s rooms. Each of the men in their company had their own quarters, included as part of their commission. They could live outside of the Garrison if they wanted, but lodging here was free.

d’Artagnan opened the door, and Aramis carried the boy over to his bed, laying him down. His room was rather tidy, musket gear and cleaning equipment put up in drawers, though his table was covered with a few powders, horse hairs, and tinctures since he had been restocking his medical supplies.

“d’Artagnan, can you get some water for our young friend?” he asked, glancing up at d’Artagnan, “We need to cool his fever.”

As d’Artagnan left, Aramis sat down on the edge of the bed and gently tugged at the cloak the boy was wearing, trying to get him unwrapped so he wouldn’t overheat. He was startled when the child sat straight up and swung at him, his eyes wide and dark blue.

“ _No! Go away, get away from me!_ ”

“Shh, shh, whoa,” Aramis said, grabbing the boy’s hand and forcing it down. The child was weak and didn’t resist, flopping back down against the thin mattress. Aramis switched easily from French to Spanish, keeping his voice low and soothing. “ _I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I’m Aramis. What’s your name?_ ”

“Aramis? _”_ The blue eyes clouded over with the delirium of his fever, and his hope of getting a name out of him was quickly lost. “ _Where’s Mama? I want her. Where’s Rosa? Nicolas!_ ” Each name seemed to make him more panicked, and he pulled against Aramis’ gentle hold. “ _Hot, it’s so hot_.”

“ _It’s all right_ ,” Aramis said, keeping his tone soft but firm, “ _You’re safe now. We’ll find them_.”

Assuming all of these people were still alive, of course. The assurances quieted the child and his eyes closed, probably out of exhaustion. Aramis sighed and started untying his small scuffed boots. This boy brought so many questions, but so far there were no answers. Hopefully Porthos could catch up to the one that had been thieving, and they could figure out what was going on.

 


	3. Chapter 3

A floppy-hatted, grey-scarfed urchin wearing a coat. Probably with dark eyes.

Grand, d’Artagnan, very keen and distinctive observations.

Porthos thought that he might as well have been trying to hunt down half of the city’s orphans with that kind of description. It was winter, and that was practically the uniform of the city’s horde of unwanted children.

He glanced behind yet another barrel and, once again, had no luck. He turned and backtracked, looking about for his quarry while trying to make it seem like he wasn’t actively tracking someone down. Last thing he wanted to do was spook the runt and make him run. He didn’t fancy a sprint about the city right before having to go on a hunt with the king. Unless it kept him out of the hunt.

Porthos wasn’t wandering too far from the garrison, guessing that their little thief would be nearby if he was worried about his friend. He hoped that the other lad wasn’t too far gone; at least he was in good hands now, hands he apparently knew somehow. That’d be a nice mystery to unravel, and hopefully the boy he was looking for could help them figure it out.

He was halfway down a backstreet when he spotted a little figure tucked behind a cart, half hidden behind the spokes of one big wheel. There was a floppy hat, a ragged grey scarf, a too-big coat. It stood a good chance that this was the boy that d’Artagnan had seen earlier, but there wasn’t a good way to make sure without talking to him.

Walking in that general direction, Porthos stopped near the wagon. No good way to grab the boy, and besides, he didn’t want to scare him. Instead, he leaned back against the wall and glanced over at the scrawny child.

“Hey,” he said quietly, “Are you lost?”

The boy whipped about to look up at him, dark eyes peeking over the scarf that covered his nose and mouth. Wet tracks smudged the dirt and soot on his face, like he had been wiping away tears, and those brown eyes were bloodshot and watery. He scrambled back further into the little corner he was sitting in, taking refuge behind the uncertain safety of the cart. “No.”

“You look a little lost.” Porthos shrugged. “Or like you’re missing someone.”

The boy stared, though his arms were braced against the ground as if he was about to shove himself to his feet. “What?”

“Well, you see,” Porthos said as he pretended that the cart had caught his interest. He wandered around the side of it, moving toward the end that the child was hiding behind. “I was sent me to find some boy ‘cause a friend of that boy is sick and at the garrison. You know, the Musketeer garrison?”

The boy sprang to his feet, hands gripping the wheel of the cart, and let out a string of rapid Spanish before switching to French. “Is he all right? What did you do to him?” The brown eyes narrowed ferociously.

“So it is you,” Porthos said with a half-smile. “If you come with me, you can see him. Promise.”

The child hesitated and then looked past Porthos, which led the Musketeer to look over his shoulder. A burly man, potbellied beneath a massive coat, was approaching the cart, a bag tossed over his shoulder.

He eyed Porthos suspiciously. “What’re you doing with my cart?”

“Nothing,” Porthos answered, “I was just talking to the boy.”

“What boy? Ain’t got no boy.” The man flung the bag into the cart and turned to Porthos. “Now get on your way.”

Porthos’ hands twitched into fists, but he knew this one wasn’t worth the effort. “Just a moment.” He turned toward the boy again just in time to see him dart out from behind the cart on the other side and run off down the street. Porthos took off after him, longer legs eating the cobblestone, but the child wasn’t weighted down with weaponry or armor and after a couple turns, he was out of sight.

“Damn it…” There wasn’t enough time to track him down again before he needed to be at the hunt, especially when the boy knew someone was looking for him. But there was another option, he supposed. He just needed to make a quick stop at the Court of Miracles before returning to the garrison to go to the hunt. If anyone could fish out a little thief in this city, it would be Flea and the multitude of beggars and pickpockets that lived in the Court.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why should I hand him over to you?”

The two of them were right at the edge of the Court, Flea leaning against the wall, all beauty and defiance and fire, while Porthos stood before her like a supplicant to a queen. He had already told her the boy’s description and where he could probably be found. It was a little close to the garrison for comfort, but he was hoping that she would do him this one favor.

He gave her a rogue’s smile. “Because I’m asking real nice like.”

“Try again,” Flea said, a hand on her hip, “It’s not really good for me if it gets out that I’m handing thieves over to Musketeers. People won’t like it much.”

“What if he’s not one of yours?” he asked, “He speaks Spanish, too. And you said yourself, you didn’t think any of yours that age were nicking that area.”

“But he might be mine,” Flea said, “They both might be. Are you going to give them back?”

Porthos spread his arms, hands open. “I don’t know yet. But I promise you, we won’t treat them bad. You know we won’t. Mostly we just want to know what they want with Aramis.”

“Your tomcat friend?” She made a dismissive noise, half amusement, half disdain. “He probably caught their mother’s eye for a night, and they’re little assassins out to protect her honor or some such thing.”

“All the more reason to find him,” Porthos said, “He did steal from an apothecary today.”

“Most likely poisons, then.” Flea rolled her eyes and pushed away from the wall. “I’m not saying I’ll do it, but I might keep an eye out for your thief. Maybe have some others look for him.” She pointed a finger up into his face. “You’ll owe me.”

“I can think of ways to repay you,” he said, mischief and suggestion lacing his tone as he caught her finger and kissed the tip of it.

“Don’t you start with me,” Flea said. It took a moment to reclaim her hand, and she another moment to step back toward the Court. “Go on. I’ll send someone if I find him.”

“Thanks, Flea, you’re a true friend.”

“You’ll owe me!”

With a laugh, Porthos turned and walked back to his horse.  The hunt would be starting soon, and he would be lambasted by Treville if he missed it. Especially since Aramis wasn’t going to make it since he had convinced the captain that he needed to stay behind to nurse the boy. Poor sick thing. They weren’t sure if he was going to make it. That fever of his was something fierce, but if Aramis would do what he could.

After mounting his horse, Porthos headed off to the palace and the hunt, trying to keep his mind off of how bitterly cold it was going to be. Lovely way to spend an afternoon, trotting around the forest while the king and his noble friends shot at rabbits and deer and pheasants. Just lovely.

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, Porthos had had his fill of needy nobles and dead forest creatures. He was cleaning his sword, a sort of calming chore after a long day of riding about protecting the king from getting shot by some of his less capable courtiers.

Across from him, Aramis was hurriedly eating a bowl of stew, presumably eager to get back to the boy upstairs. D’Artagnan had relieved him so he could get something to eat, and both Porthos and Athos were keeping an eye on Aramis, making sure he had a full meal before running off again. It wouldn’t help anything if Aramis caught whatever sickness the boy had.

“Slow down before you choke,” Athos said, staring hard at Aramis.

Aramis paused to give a grin that had a hint of tenseness to it. “I don’t choke easily.”

“Still. You’re tempting fate.”

The discussion might have involved into an argument if not for the sudden disagreement over near the entrance to the garrison. “You’re not allowed in here, mademoiselle.”

“I have business with Porthos, so you better go get him.” 

“Let her in, Ferdinand,” Porthos called as he got up from the table, wondering why Flea herself had shown up here. She normally stayed as far away from anything dealing with Musketeers as she could get. He headed over to her as she came in, cloaked and with a small, familiar figure at her side. “I thought you were going to send someone.”

“That was before your thief got found,” Flea said, her tone hovering somewhere between accusatory and mischievous, “Is this the one you wanted?” She put her hand on the child’s back and gave a gentle shove, making him take a step forward. “Speaks Spanish and had a pouch of apothecary bottles.”

Porthos sensed Athos and Aramis walking up behind him as he bent down to get a look at the boy in the courtyard’s torchlight. “Where’d the bruise come from?” he asked, noticing the new dark spot by his eye, above that ever-present scarf.

“There are some rough boys in this neighborhood,” Flea said, “But that’s not really the problem here.” Reaching over she plucked the hat off the boy’s head and tossed it to Athos, who caught it easily. For a second, the child tried to bolt, but Flea caught him by the arm and unwrapped the scarf from around his face. Then she pulled a long, thick braid of dark hair from beneath the high collar of the oversized coat.

Instead of a boy, there was a little girl standing there, dark brown eyes huge and scared above a pert button nose and rosebud lips, her dirty face filled with fear and anger.

Oh. Yeah…trust Flea to be able to see through a disguise like that. She lived in a place where visual lies were a way of life. Porthos was kicking himself, aggravated he hadn’t seen it earlier.

Hand still firmly around the girl’s arm, Flea nodded to Porthos.

“Meet your thief. Rosa.”


	4. Chapter 4

That name was familiar. It was one that the boy had called out before he had become insensible. Aramis had assumed that the thief that they were looking for was Nicolas, a brother or a friend to the sickly child upstairs, but apparently there had been a mistake and it was actually Rosa they had been searching after all along.

Nice trick.

The girl was looking up at them all as if she were a lost kitten and they were all vicious dogs prepared to leap at a moment’s notice. It must have been frightening, to be that tiny and to have so many strangers staring down at you. She shifted backwards, hands balling into fists, her shoulders curling forward as if expecting one of them to strike her. While she lacked the half-feral air that most street brats carried, she did seemed prepared to take abuse.

Something changed in the group’s mood, a subtle shift from suspicious to sympathetic. It was one thing to have a child thief dashing around and stealing things and causing chaos, but to be confronted with a terrified little girl with a bruise on her cheek was something different.

“She had a decent disguise,” Flea said, handing the scarf to Athos as well before turning toward Porthos, “But you should’ve seen through it. You’re losing your touch, and you’re now in my debt, without a doubt.”

“I won’t forget it,” Porthos said, finally looking away from the girl. “Come on, I’ll walk you out and you can recount the whole tale.” He extended an arm to her, which she took with an amused little smirk, letting go of the girl with a lingering pointed look before she walked off with the musketeer.

The child froze in place, watching Aramis and Athos warily, taking another hesitant step back. Aramis didn’t exactly know what to do with her now that they had her. They needed answers, but she looked like she needed a meal and perhaps a poultice for that bruise on her face before they attempted to ask her anything.

“Aramis, I swear you always find yourself in the strangest of predicaments,” Athos said.

The girl’s gaze flitted to him, her attention sharpened at the sound of his name. Aramis stared back.

Athos gave a long sigh. “Do you know this girl?”

“I don’t,” he said. He shrugged helplessly. “But the boy was asking for a girl earlier…” He turned to her and offered a friendly smile. “That would be you, wouldn’t it, hmm, Rosa?”

The girl frowned, alert and calculating, probably trying to figure out what to do, the same as he was. “Where is Matteo?” she finally asked, piping up for the first time, her French flourished with a Spanish accent. “What did you do with him?”

“He’s your brother, isn’t he?” Aramis guessed, earning himself a grudging nod. “He’s safe.” He went down on one knee so that they were closer to eye level, but she backed up another few steps until Athos shook his head at her. If she went any farther, she would be able to race back for the entrance, and it had been all too difficult to catch her the first time. No one wanted to have to do it a second time. “Rosa, my name is Aramis.” He watched her closely as she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Your brother was looking for me. Do you know why?”

 “Where is he?” she demanded again, dodging giving an explanation. Instead, she stepped closer. “I want to see him.” Those hard eyes turned desperate, and Aramis knew he would give in soon enough if she kept looking at him like that. “Please.”

“All right, I’ll take you to him,” Aramis said. He would let her see her brother, then he would feed her, and after that, questions. He did need to know why two ragamuffins were running around the city, apparently on the hunt for him or something like that.

“Here.” Athos handed the girl her scarf but kept hold of the floppy hat. “It’s cold.”

She took it with a little nod and wrapped it around her neck before looking up at Aramis. He gave her another smile, but she just looked back at him, all seriousness. With a sigh, he gestured toward the door to the inner garrison, and the two of them headed inside and up the stairs. The instant Aramis opened the door to his room, Rosa raced to the bed, ignoring d’Artagnan, who automatically stood up and made as if to catch her.

“No, don’t,” Aramis said, holding up a hand to stay his friend, “It’s all right.”

“And who’s this?” d’Artagnan asked, but the girl still wasn’t paying him any attention. She sat down on the edge of the bed, taking her brother’s hands in hers. Aramis decided to leave them alone for a moment and lingered near the door, beckoning d’Artagnan to come over to him.

 _“Matteo, Matteo, wake up,”_ she said quietly, _“You have to wake up now. Matteo?”_ The boy didn’t stir, and his eyelids didn’t flutter. He didn’t give any indication that he had heard her at all. Tears glistened in her dark eyes, and she didn’t bother to reach up and brush them away.

Now that they were together, Aramis could see the resemblance between the two of them and how close they were in age. They were probably around seven years old, maybe eight. It was possible that they were twins.

“That isn’t…” D’Artagnan frowned for a moment as he realized his mistake. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Don’t worry, Porthos thought she was a boy as well,” Aramis said, giving his friend a half-smile. “It was an easy mistake to make.” With the loose pants and thick jacket, as well as the scarf and hat, she had been quite convincing.

“Sneaky.”

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll stay with them. Go get something to eat.”

The young man nodded and glanced at the two children for a moment before shaking his head, probably berating himself internally. He eventually took off, and Aramis could hear him taking to stairs two at a time. Reckless youthful energy.

 _“How long has he been sick?”_ he asked Rosa, closing the door as he stepped fully inside his room.

Rosa didn’t seem startled by the fact that he knew Spanish. She simply pulled her legs up onto the bed and sat between him and the boy, as if she was going to protect him. As if Aramis hadn’t been caring for him since he had been brought to the garrison. It almost would have been insulting if she hadn’t looked so determined and defensive, like a little alley cat. He was sure that if he came close without permission she would try to scratch his eyes out. Hoping that she would calm down, he sat down in a chair and attempted to look harmless.

“A few days,” she said, answering in French. She tucked her chin in against her knees. “He was going to get better.”

“That’s right, you stole medicine for him, didn’t you?”

In answer, she pulled a little satchel out of her coat pocket, and the faint scent of the herbs tinted the scent of the room, fighting with the other herbs he had already used.

“May I see?” he asked, “I promise you I’ll give them back to you.”

For a moment, her hand tightened around the satchel, but then she held the little bag out to him, yanking her hand back when he took the bag.

Up close he could see the dried herbs better and actually identify them in their unmarked bottles. Linden flower and yarrow. Both were common herbal remedies for fevers. So she hadn’t stolen the herbs at random. How had she known what to give him? He had a hundred questions, but first things first. That bruise needed tending, and they also needed to get some food into her, before she started looking like a properly starved street urchin.

“These are very nice,” he said, standing up and handing the satchel back to her. She snatched it from his hand and pocketed it as he turned toward the nearby table, which had various things from his healing kit spread out across it. “Do you know a lot about herbs?”

He was treated to a small nod. Suspicious and skittish.

“I think I can make a poultice for that black eye of yours,” he said, stopping himself from asking how she got it in the first place. “Do you want to help? Then we can go downstairs and get a broth for your brother.” And some stew for her.

That did the trick. Silently, Rosa slipped off the side of the bed and came over to him, stopping once she was at his side. She looked over the herbs and then pointed at a small pile of leaves. “I need that nettle leaf…”


End file.
